


Never Let You Down

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Bliss, F/F, One Shot, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 18:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12326052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: She catches you staring. Caught red-handed, you blush. Your face burns with shame.





	Never Let You Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JoansPencils](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoansPencils/gifts).



> This is for the wonderful JoansPencils. Thanks for inspiring me and allowing me to destroy you with feels.
> 
> I thought a nice moment of domesticity would be appreciated.

Clad in only an over-sized shirt – **her** shirt – you could easily drown in the earthen fabric. Your legs, lithe and sinewy, dangle over the edge. It's forest green. The cotton's soft to the touch. Like a child, you toy with the hem. Pretend it's a dress. Your innocence hasn't gone away. Not entirely.

It smells like her: fresh linen and a hint of Giorgio Armani. You never thought she'd enjoy such an overpowering scent, but you never thought to ask.

For Christmas, you swear to yourself that you'll buy her a bottle, even if it's to see a glimpse of satisfaction quirking her lips into a ghostly smile. That means the world to you.

While she's busy preparing brekkie, you sit on the counter. Joan _loathes_ when you do that. Often, she glares at you until you're complacent. Until you're able to stand on your own two feet again. Other times, she warns you about the unsanitary risk that you take by sitting where food preparation takes place. Disease is as much as a threat as the common cold.

You want to laugh at the absurdity.

Somehow, you understand; she can't help it.

With a hot cuppa in your small, fragile hands, you sneak glances at her. Adoration resembles the sun. It's all in your stare. Meekly, you look down, but it's the meek who will inherit the earth. Take the crowns. Assume the throne.

This morning, she doesn't wear the uniform. Without its harshness, she appears softer, maybe even matronly. Dark hair, greying at the temples, is thrown back into a loose, albeit perfect ponytail. Her maroon blouse is open at the collar. The color bleeds like your love for her. Your trust. Your devotion.

Five prepared meals, confined to a rubbermaid prison, sit in her freezer along with the shotglasses and vodka. You've been snooping in the past; there, she caught you red-handed. As her guest, she allowed you the moment of insatiable curiosity. Her only response had been, “You deserve a freshly cooked meal.”

That's how you knew she cared.

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” she says over the hiss of the pan and the heat of the kitchen.

You study her silhouette. The soft slope of her proud jaw. In the work place, you've seen her calm and collected. In her home, you've seen her at peace.

It's the greatest intimacy that anyone has ever shared with you.

She catches you staring. Caught red-handed, you blush. Your face burns with shame.

“One or two?” She asks when she cracks an egg against a ceramic bowl. The act is only done after the counter is wiped down in an efficient manner.

“One,” you respond in time. Set down your tea. You've never been fond of eating. Mum had been too nitpicky; your nerves never healed properly.

Joan fixes you a quaint plate, perfect for the domesticity that you now share.

You wonder how you've gotten so lucky.

Her palm settles on your bare knee. Her firm hand slides higher. Squeezes the muscle that grows unbearably tense. The touch ignites a fire. Your eyes widen, bottom lip quivering. You bite down on her lip. Bemused, there's a smile around her eyes – a rare sight; it's how you know she's pleased.

“Come along, Vera.”

You push yourself off the counter and clean up the traces of yourself with a sanitized cloth. You may not understand her mind, but you're beginning to comprehend the machinations.

“Joan?” Still, you hesitate. Your hands wrench the cloth in two. You throw it out.

“Mm?”

Her back's turned towards you, the plates in her hands. Balanced, she resembles Iustitia's scales.

“Thank you.”

“There's no need to thank me, Vera. You are always welcome here.”

You notice the way her shoulders drop in relief. It's the little gestures that realize how she's opened a door for you.

Willingly, you follow.

 


End file.
